Mirror
by Sharrukin
Summary: Witch of the Wilds and Circle mage, it was a strange chance that they should even meet, much less become heroes and partners of legend together. Yet long before they met, Morrigan and the Warden already had more in common than either of them might have expected. A short collection of scenes from the time of the Fifth Blight.
1. One (Morrigan)

_**Spring, Dragon 9:23, Lornan's Exile**_

The young arlessa's carriage rested in the courtyard outside the front gates of a keep, a pair of lazy guardsmen standing half-hearted watch in the noonday sun.

"Eh, why do we get always get such shite assignments?" complained the young, tall one. "Standing out here in the hot, while Her Ladyship natters with the gentry."

The older, shorter guardsman shrugged, a scar on his cheek making his frown look fearsome. "Most likely because _someone_ got drunk at Wintersend and insulted the steward's wife."

"Did not!" The young guardsman protested. "I mean, yes, I was drunk, but I didn't _mean_ to stumble just as she passed by. My hands just went where they needed to go, as it were."

"I think the lesson to be drawn there is _not to get drunk in the first place_, ye nit."

The young guardsman only looked uncomprehending. His companion shook his head with a long-suffering sigh.

From the undergrowth, a few yards away, a pair of golden eyes watched.

_Those men are inattentive. Might I creep closer?_

"Still. If I have to spend another week dancing attendance on Her Ladyship, I think I may go mad." The young guardsman heaved a dramatic sigh. "Just what does the arl _see_ in her, anyway?"

The older guardsman made a cynical grunt. His hands traced a set of sinuous curves in the air.

"Well, yes, there's _that_. But she's so nose-in-the-air. So _Orlesian."_

"Trust me, boy, Orlesian women are put together just the same as Fereldens, and sure as sure she's not nose-in-the-air in the bedchamber."

A shadow stirred in the undergrowth, and then a small dark form darted silently across open ground. Either of the men might have seen it, had they been alert and looking in the right direction.

Inside the carriage: wonders. Seats covered in velvet, with elaborate embroidered cushions. A spare cloak hanging from a peg, decorated with silver studs. Little bottles and flasks with mysterious contents.

_Who_ makes _all of these things?_

There, on the front seat where a careless maid had left it, something small glittered. The creature hopped up on the seat and stared, nose and whiskers twitching.

It was a hand mirror. The golden frame bore an image of deer and sparrows dancing in a field, the eyes picked out with tiny chips of gemstone. The glass had been polished to a shine, with silver backing. The creature saw itself in the glass: sharp nose, black furry mask around golden eyes.

It made a small sound of astonishment and delight.

"Here now, what's that?" The older guardsman's voice, from just outside the carriage.

The little beast's heart leaped with terror. It jumped to the window, down to the ground, and made a break for the undergrowth. Its flight was hampered somewhat by the decision to take the mirror with it.

Raccoons, after all, have _hands_.

Quick as a flash, it was gone.

"Did you see that?" asked the young guardsman.

"No, I did not, and neither did you," said his partner. "Better to say nothing and let the arlessa's maid take the blame, if you don't want to be on shite assignments 'til _next_ Wintersend."

* * *

><p>Miles away, no human scent drifted on the breeze, and no sound could be heard but that of wind in the leaves. The little raccoon finally paused in a sunlit glade to examine its prize.<p>

A flicker of shadow, a twisting of shape, and the beast vanished. In its place stood a young girl, tall and gangly, all knees and elbows. She wore a motley collection of cloth and leather scraps, embellished with raven feathers. Her eyes, enormous and golden, peered avidly into the mirror.

_Do people outside the Wilds all possess such beautiful things?_

_Perhaps not. Those men spoke as if they served the woman who rode in that carriage, and unwillingly at that. She must be wealthy, possessing many things that others have made for her. Like a clan chief among the Chasind folk. _

_She was certainly very beautiful._

The girl tucked her prize into a pocket of her rough tunic, and turned to the path home.

She moved like a shadow through the wood, somehow covering far more ground than any girl should have done, no matter how forest-wise. Any merely human pursuer would soon have fallen far behind. Branches and vines never reached out to trip or catch. The birds and beasts took no notice of her as she passed. As the sun sank into the northwest, the forest slowly declined into marshland around her, occasional ruins jutting out of the earth like the stumps of decayed teeth.

There, on an isolated spot of high ground, a wooden hut. Home.

_No sign of Mother. She must be away on some errand._

The girl thought to take her prize into the hut and conceal it in her own space, but at the last moment she thought better of the plan. Instead, she scampered over a low rise, finding a thick bramble that she had used before when she wanted privacy. She squirmed under the thorns, and curled up in a space not quite large enough for her to stretch out full length.

There, she brought out the mirror once more, turning it over and over in her hands, admiring the luster of the gold, the shine of the tiny gemstones, and the perfect reflection of the silvered glass. She stared at her own face in the glass: high cheekbones, tapered chin, large golden eyes.

_That girl is me. I have never seen myself so clearly before. Even a quiet pool of clear water does not compare._

_I'm not sure, but I think I may be _pretty.

So engrossed was the child in her precious thing, that she failed to listen for the fatal sound of footsteps on the ground outside her refuge.

"Morrigan?"

For the second time that day, the girl's heart jumped. This time, the fear seemed to reach up and strangle the breath in her throat. She made a tiny squeak of terror.

"Morrigan. Come out at once . . ."

The girl very carefully did _not_ give an exasperated sigh. She began to reverse herself, preparing to wriggle under the thorns once again.

". . . and bring with you whatever you have."

She stopped. Now the knocking of her heart felt so strong, it seemed a wonder Mother couldn't hear it.

_If she can see through those thorns, she can hear my heart beating._

Soon enough, she stood before her mother, doing her best to show no outward sign of fear. Fear only made Mother worse. She would still be angry if you made a mistake, but you could at least try to get respectful anger instead of withering contempt.

"Show me," said Flemeth.

Morrigan surrendered the mirror at once.

The old woman took the small thing, turning it over in her hands. "Well, girl. You could not have made such a thing as this, and you could not have traded with anyone for it. From whom did you steal it?"

"I don't know for certain," said Morrigan. "Men stood close by the carriage where I found it. They mentioned someone named _the arlessa."_

"_What?"_

Despite herself, Morrigan flinched slightly. It would be the withering contempt after all.

"An arlessa is high nobility out among the dog-lords, girl. That's wealth and power. Enough to comb the Wilds for thieves and apostates, if it decides to take notice. You took the risk of calling _that_ down on us, and for what? _This?"_

"There was no risk!" Morrigan protested. "No one saw me. Even if the men did see, they would not understand what they saw."

"_Fool!_ They don't have to _understand_, they only have to be afraid. One word to the Chantry and we have another pack of idiot templars on our doorstep. One day, we may get one intelligent enough to do us real harm. Or, much more likely, one _lucky_ enough to do us harm. Do you want that?"

Morrigan looked down, still felling rebellious, but Flemeth had produced the argument that could not be refuted. "No, Mother."

"All for a pretty little bauble. Gold, a few tiny stones, a chance to admire your own face. _Bah!"_ With a flat snap of her wrist, Flemeth sent the mirror flying through the air to strike a nearby stone. It shattered, glass and tiny gemstones scattering in the muck.

Morrigan's face did not change in the slightest, as if carved out of pale stone. Deep in her mind, the fear curdled into something new and strange, something she didn't have a word for as yet.

It might have been _hatred_.

Flemeth watched her daughter closely, nodding to herself after a moment. "This is a hard lesson, girl, and I know it. Let me ask you this. Why do you suppose we live in the heart of the Wilds, so far away from other folk who might have such things?"

"Because we hide from the templars, of course," said Morrigan, her voice calm enough to belie the seething in her heart.

"That _is_ one reason, 'tis true. Not the whole reason." Flemeth pointed at the remains of the shattered mirror. "In the outside world, men and women spend most of their lives pursuing such frippery. Pretty, yes, and a way to show off one's wealth, but ultimately useless. Not worth your time, even if it didn't risk exposing us to those who would murder us in cold blood. No, girl, I'll tell you what has significance in this world. Knowledge. Power. Survival. Those you shall have, and _laugh_ at the fools who chase after wisps and nonsense."

Morrigan nodded slowly, her face still set as if in stone. Her thoughts she kept to herself.

_Very well, Mother. If that is the lesson you wish me to learn, I will learn it even better than you expect._

_And one day, I may have enough knowledge and power to survive even you._


	2. Two (Alaric)

_**Summer, Dragon 9:21, Amell Family Estate/Kirkwall**_

There was a place Alaric knew, near the head of the great stairs, where some trick of acoustics made every word spoken down in the great hall clearly audible. A slender boy could conceal himself behind the oak armoire, never risking discovery so long as he kept very still, and listen to the mysterious business of adults.

Of course, at the moment it didn't take a trick of acoustics to make that business all too clear.

"Maker's breath, Damion, you _know_ we can't afford a scandal right now," came a quavering old man's voice from below.

Lord Fausten Amell, the Baron of Arkness. Alaric's grandfather.

"The city is buzzing like a beehive that's been hit with a stick. Everyone expects my brother to be named the new Viscount, but for that to happen, he has to have support from the Knight-Commander. Which means this family _cannot_ appear to be in defiance of the templars!"

"This is my _son_ we're talking about," said another, deeper male voice. Father's voice, rough with anger and unshed tears.

"Don't you think I know that? He's my grandson, the only one I have. I love the boy too."

A long pause. Alaric held his breath, fighting back hot tears of his own.

"I expected him to be my heir one day," said Grandfather. "Who knows, maybe he would have become the viscount himself in time, considering what a loss your cousin Gamlen seems to be. But none of that can happen now. You know that."

"Because I am his mother," said a new voice, low and feminine, full of bitterness.

"Revka," said Father reproachfully.

"You know it's true. My grandfather was a mage. Then none in my family for two generations, and you thought it was worth the risk. Now look at what I have brought you."

The sound of rustling cloth. In his mind's eye, Alaric could see his father moving to embrace his mother, though there would be no tears. There never were, with Lady Revka Amell.

"That's nonsense. You were worth the risk. You've brought me nothing but years of contentment and three fine children. This is the Maker's doing, not yours."

"Don't blame yourself, girl." Grandfather's voice sounded strange, as if he couldn't decide between tenderness and exasperation. "There's magery in the Amell family tree as well. Not in three generations, and never in the main line, but enough to tell the tale. This might have nothing to do with you at all."

"Perhaps," said Mother quietly. "But what if the girls show signs of this power as well?"

Sudden silence, from down in the great hall.

"You're right," said Grandfather at last. "Which is why we can't even _think_ about hiding this. For one child, we might be able to sweep the truth under the carpet. The other boys didn't see what they thought they saw. We hire a tutor, to teach young Alaric how to conceal and control his talent. It's been done before, and it doesn't _always_ end in disaster. But you have three children, and if the power shows in one, it may very well show in another. Then the lie will come unraveled, and it will be worse than if we had never tried to conceal it at all."

Up behind the armoire, Alaric sat quietly, thinking hard about what he heard. He still wanted to cry, he still felt a hard knot of hot terror in his gut. Yet, deep in his mind, he turned to a place where nothing lived but cold clarity. A place he had learned to go, whenever his emotions threatened to carry him away. A place where the voices that whispered in his dreams could not follow him.

_That's what this means. I'm a mage. Clear as the sun in the sky._

_Which means I can't be Father's heir. I can't go on living here. I'll have to go to the Circle, where they can teach me how to use the talent. Where they can teach me how to prevent the talent from using me._

_I can go with my head held high, under my own power, or I can go screaming and clawing at the door-frames while the templars drag me away. I know which one I would rather choose._

Absolutely silent, making sure he never became visible from the floor of the great hall, Alaric eased out from behind the armoire and down the hallway to his room. The door quietly eased open, and then closed, cutting off the sound of ongoing debate.

Alaric stood still for a moment, looking around the room, his mind weighing and measuring what he saw.

Clothing would be of no use. Mages were given clothing to wear, to match their status in the Circle. No sense trying to take a favored game or toy, either. It was time to put away such childish things. Alaric's practice sword and belt knife would have to stay behind, so he could look as harmless as possible to the templars. Besides, those were things for nobles, and he wouldn't be a noble anymore.

_Well, there's one thing mages will certainly be permitted to keep for their own._

There, on a single set of three shelves, rested some of Alaric's most prized possessions.

Books.

Alaric went to stand before the shelves, reading the spines as he had done so many times before. He soon realized that even most of these treasures would have to remain behind. The templars would probably not permit him to pack whole boxes.

_Enough to fill my haversack_, he decided. _Four, maybe five if I pick the right ones._

_Aveline, Knight of Orlais_ seemed an easy choice, if he wanted at least _one_ book of tales of chivalry to console him in his banishment. He hadn't finished Genitivi's _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ yet, and the templars could hardly object to a work by such a renowned Chantry scholar. The same went for his battered, much-read copy of _The Sermons of Divine Renata the First._

He hesitated, having selected three books already, and Genitivi a rather thick and heavy volume at that. So many choices, even if he left all of the children's books and manuals for noblemen behind!

Then his hand rested, as if by chance, on a little-read volume, bound in green leather with a small clasp. Alaric remembered when the book had arrived, on his tenth birthday. A gift from Cousin Leandra, sent from wherever she lived in exile with her apostate husband. Maker alone knew where she had found it, or why she had thought to send it back to Kirkwall, to a boy she had never met.

_A Partial Grammar and Lexicon of Ancient Elvish_, by the great philologist Johann Tollkühn. Difficult going for a boy, even a boy with a scholarly bent of mind. Although the idea interested him: to learn even a little of a language so ancient and mysterious that even latter-day _elves_ could no longer speak it well.

_I only have room for one more book, and it has to be a small one. This will do._

He closed the haversack, careful not to harm the closely packed books, and slung it over his shoulder.

Out in the hallway once more, he walked to the head of the grand staircase and began to descend. The adults in the great hall remained embroiled in their argument. Only Mother noticed his arrival, her shadowed eyes glancing his way.

Just in time. At the door: a sudden pounding of fists on the thick wood.

"_Open!"_ came a booming voice from outside. _"Open, in Andraste's name!"_

All at once, the adults fell silent, even Baron Fausten looking small and afraid.

"You'd better open the door, Father," said Alaric. "The templars must be here."

_That_ earned the boy a sheaf of wide-eyed stares, which he did his best to return with a look of bland confidence.

"Son . . ." began Father.

"It's all right, Father." Alaric managed to _smile_. "It's better this way, for me and for the rest of the family too."

Heavy boots pounded on the expensive marble floor. A squad of templars entered the great hall, their visors down to render them faceless and intimidating, weapons sheathed but hands on sword-hilts. At their head marched a fierce-looking woman in full armor, no helmet on her head, only a scarlet cowl over long wheat-blonde hair. Her eyes were blue and as cold as glacial ice.

"Knight-Commander Meredith," said Grandfather, his voice strangled almost to a whisper.

"Lord Fausten," said the woman, with a microscopic nod. "Lord Damion, Lady Revka, I am here for your son."

Dead silence in the hall, for just an instant.

Then Alaric spoke up. "I'm here, Knight-Commander."

The blue eyes snapped to his face, assessing him in an instant. "You are young Alaric?"

"That's right, my lady. I'm the mage."

Mother gasped, the sound so quiet that Alaric could barely hear it.

"You understand what must happen?" demanded the Knight-Commander.

"Yes, my lady." Alaric's voice cracked, and he cursed the bad luck that caused it to happen at just the moment he most wanted to sound brave and adult. "I'm to go and live in the Circle. I'm ready to leave now, if it please you."

For just an instant, Alaric saw something in the fearsome woman's eyes, something he remembered and treasured for years to come: a flicker of _respect_.

"A sensible lad," she said, her voice still flat and cold. "Your family should be proud to have raised a son with such courage."

Alaric nodded, acknowledging the praise. "May I bring this? It contains only a few books."

The Knight-Commander made a small gesture with her chin. One of the templars approached, took the bag from Alaric's hands, opened it and made a quick-but-thorough inspection of its contents. "As the lad says," he reported, a Ferelden accent in his voice. "Books. None of them on the proscribed list."

"Very well. Take a moment to make your farewells," commanded Meredith.

Alaric turned to his family. He shook his grandfather's hand, then his father's. His mother refused to bend or to weep, proud as always, but she swept Alaric into her embrace one last time.

"I will love you always, my son," she said, and then she held him at arm's length to look into his eyes. "Always remember, you are an Amell. Wherever you may go, live up to that name."

"I will, Mother." Then he turned away, clenching his jaw against the tears that threatened to spill from behind his eyes, and went with the templars.

He never saw his parents again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>__ Careful observers will notice that this scene isn't quite compatible with the lore regarding the Amell family. Most interpretations of Leandra's in-game dialogue and the relevant codex entries suggest that Revka was an Amell by birth, that her first child was born right about the time the templars arrested and executed Viscount Perrin of Kirkwall, and that the child was discovered to be a mage in infancy._

_Unfortunately, that would make Revka the only case I can find of a high-born woman not taking her husband's family name after marriage. It would have the Human Mage Warden born only nine years before the beginning of the Fifth Blight. It would be the only instance I can find of a mage child being discovered that early in life. Finally, it would pose difficulties in reconciling the chronology with the ages of Leandra Hawke's children as of the start of the Blight._

_As with many continuities designed by committee, inconsistencies often turn up in the _Dragon Age_ setting. The Amell family background suggested in this story is my attempt to come up with a narrative that's as consistent as possible with all the evidence._


	3. Three (Morrigan)

_**Autumn, Dragon 9:27, Korcari Wilds**_

Morrigan stood, looking down into a dark hollow in the land, full of twisted trees and dense thicket.

"What will I find there, Mother?"

"Come now, child, 'twould hardly be a proper test if you knew in advance." Flemeth gave her a smile, but Morrigan knew better than to think it an expression of kindness. "Go now, and keep your wits about you, and you will do well enough. I will go back to our hut, and catch a brace of coneys along the way. Come home when you have learned what this place has to teach you, and there will be stew on the fire."

Morrigan nodded and set her jaw in determination, holding her new staff firmly in her right hand. Without a backward glance at her mother, she set off down the shallow slope.

_Be in the moment. Eyes go wide and alert. Ears listen to the natural sounds all around, searching for any sign of something out of place. Nostrils flare to take in the scents of the Wild. Even your skin can tell you secrets, sensitive to the currents of the air, or to the hint of magic on the breeze._

There. The first clue: a stone set about a pace outside the small twisted grove.

Seeing a stone, standing or lying or half-buried in the earth, was no rarity in the Korcari Wilds. The Chasind folk had a positive _obsession_ with moving the things about, setting them up in odd places as the spirits moved them. Also, of course, one could find the wreckage of old Tevinter ruins here and there.

This particular stone looked not at all remarkable at first glance. Upon closer examination, one could see a spiral design incised into its surface, the mark of ancient hands. Of course, the _placement_ of the stone was in itself rather suspicious. Morrigan stopped a pace away from the thing, careful not to let her shadow fall across it, and looked to her left, then to her right. She nodded to herself as she saw more such stones, set in a broad circle that enclosed the grove entirely.

_An incautious witch might step heedless into the grove, and fall prey at once to whatever lurks there._

_I am not such a fool._

Morrigan looked over her shoulder, and saw that her mother had indeed departed. For a moment, she considered turning on her heel and returning home. Then she shook her head in self-reproach. Instead she began elaborate preparations.

Never approaching the invisible circle around the grove, she gathered dry grass and twigs for kindling, then fallen deadwood for tinder. She meticulously cleared a patch of ground and built a fire, igniting it with a muttered word and a wave of her hand. Then she used a flint knife to cut a circle in the turf, centered a pace away from her fire, murmuring an elaborate incantation the entire time. Completed, the circle enclosed her feet as she rose to her full height.

Once, twice, three times she pounded on the earth with the heel of her staff, and then her voice rang out in command.

"Whatever being dwells within this place, I bind and conjure thee to come forth! Show thyself at once, in no uncanny or unnatural shape, that I may have speech with thee!"

Rather to her surprise, she got an answer at once. A hint of movement in the shadows, between the twisted trees, and then _he_ stepped out of the grove.

Morrigan was careful not to visibly react, but she admitted surprise to herself.

_My word. He is very pretty, isn't he?_

Whatever the entity was in truth, it _appeared_ a man, tall and exceedingly well-formed. He wore a tunic of purest white, leaving his arms and part of his chest bare, falling to below his knees. He had black hair, a neatly trimmed beard, a gleaming white smile, and merry eyes. Only the color of those eyes betrayed his origins, a brilliant violet like amethysts. They almost seemed to gleam in the afternoon light, as he examined Morrigan with clear appreciation.

"Ah, _you_ must be Flemeth's daughter," he said, his voice sounding not quite human, as if an oboe had spoken aloud. "Well met, lovely maiden."

"Flattery will earn you nothing," Morrigan rebuked the creature. "Do you have a name?"

"I have many names," he answered. "Perhaps you might call me _Kallias."_

She snorted in derision. "If we are to be using ancient Tevene, I might suggest a different name. _Koprophagos."_

The smile on his lips never wavered, but for an instant his eyes flashed red with anger. "That is unkind. Have I not come at your summons? Have I not obeyed you by appearing in a pleasing form? Perhaps there are other things I may do for you, in all courtesy."

"I sincerely doubt that. However, for the sake of argument, suppose I were to accept an offer of service from you. What manner of things might you do for me?"

"Many things. Although I suspect what _you _will want most is _knowledge."_

Morrigan frowned, a sudden suspicion lurking in the back of her mind. "What kind of knowledge?"

"For example, I might teach you how that exquisite body of yours could respond to a lover's touch." He must have read something in her expression, because his smile shifted, became less of an insinuation. "No? Too bad. That would have been as pleasant for me as for you. Something more pragmatically useful, then. The laws that govern the movement of the wandering stars? The whispers shared by spirits of the upper air? Memories and dreams, long since forgotten by mortals, that still linger deep in the Fade?"

"If I wanted any of those things, I could obtain them without _your_ help."

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. Certainly not even a witch of your talents could obtain such things easily." He made a long-suffering sigh. "Very well then, there is _one_ bit of knowledge I am _quite_ certain you will want."

Morrigan cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him.

"How to defeat Flemeth, and gain your independence from her."

_That_ silenced her. For a moment, she believed the creature entirely, and felt undeniable temptation. Then she shook her head in rejection, but it was already too late. He had seen her instant of weakness.

"Don't be absurd, creature. I know what you are. For such knowledge there would be a price, and it would cost me everything that made having the knowledge worthwhile."

His smile went unmarred, his eyes gleaming as he stared at her with obvious desire. "Ah, but there you are mistaken. I am not one of the weak ones, confused by my presence on this side of the Veil, unable to act in the world except through possession. Do you not perceive that I stand before you in a form of my own? I am _Kallias_, the Beautiful One, and I have no need of your body. Except in the manner that any male creature might desire you, and I promise you would find as much joy in that as I."

Morrigan almost took a step backward, away from the creature and out of her protective circle.

The demon's smile only grew a fraction wider.

Then reason came to her rescue. She took a moment to walk through the chain of logic, and could find no flaw in it.

"No," she said.

Kallias cocked his head at her. "No?"

"No. You stay in that circle until you rot, for all I care. I will not free you, not ever and not for any price you might care to name."

Now his smile vanished, like hoar-frost in the furnace. His eyes blazed like rubies. "You fool!"

"Not I. You are a _liar_. The dung you eat has poisoned your words, so that it drips out of your mouth every time you speak."

"I have not lied in any particular!"

"Than what are you doing still in that circle?" she shot back.

The demon frowned, losing its self-assurance for a moment.

"Ah, you do not understand?" Morrigan shrugged, a gesture of supreme indifference. "Poor creature. Spend another century or more in that grove, and perhaps enlightenment will come to you."

"Have a care, mortal witch," the creature rumbled. "Far greater creatures than you have come to regret making a mock of _me_."

She only pounded on the earth three times with her staff once again. "Demon, by whatever name you may be called, I bind and conjure thee to depart. Begone, begone, _begone!"_

A flash of light, and the demon was gone. A low wind made the grass bend and the leaves of the grove rustle, but Morrigan heard no other sound.

Satisfied, she ceremonially used her stone knife to cut her protective circle twice, doused her fire and stamped out the embers, and turned to depart.

* * *

><p>Flemeth glanced up from the stewpot when her daughter entered the hut. If Morrigan had expected surprise, she saw none. The old woman simply nodded to herself and went back to stirring the pot.<p>

"Punctuality," said Flemeth. "Not something we normally have much use for, deep in the Wild, but it is appreciated all the same."

"You might at least _seem_ to be pleased with my success," her daughter muttered.

"I _am_ pleased, girl. Get the bowls and spoons out of the cupboard."

Morrigan nodded, setting her staff in its place by the door, and went to set the table.

"So," said Flemeth, tasting the stew and adding a pinch of some spice to the pot. "What have you learned?"

Morrigan sat down at her place. "That demons are liars."

"A good lesson, to be sure. What evidence do you have, from this one case?"

"The thing recognized me," said Morrigan. "It knew who I was on sight."

"Interesting. What do you deduce from that?"

"That I was not the first Witch of the Wilds to visit that grove." The girl narrowed her eyes at Flemeth. "You have had other daughters, Mother, I know that much from the Chasind legends if nothing else. I deduce that you have taken each of us to that place, and the demon has come to know us."

"The Chasind know far less than they believe they do, girl, but I am interested to hear more of your reasoning."

"It made me offers of pleasure and of knowledge, if only I would release it from its prison. It must have made those offers to my older siblings as well."

Flemeth's face gave nothing away. "Go on."

"Yet the demon remains in its prison. Perhaps my sisters all saw reason to refuse its blandishments, in which case they saw their own evidence of its falsehood. Or perhaps one of my sisters released it, in which case _you_ must have been able to put it _back_ in that prison. Either way, it lacked the power to grant me what it promised."

"And so you turned your back upon it and came home to your mother." Flemeth nodded in satisfaction. "Well done, girl. Although there _is_ one flaw in your logic, even if it does not affect the outcome."

"Oh? What is that?"

"Had you released that demon from its prison, _I_ would not have hunted it down and returned it to its place. That would have been _your_ task. I believe we must all correct our own mistakes."

Morrigan snorted. "And if the demon had killed me in the attempt?"

"That would have been a pity," said Flemeth, spooning rabbit stew into wooden bowls. "Dinner is ready."


	4. Four (Alaric)

_**Summer, Dragon 9:27, Kinloch Hold/Ferelden**_

"This isn't a good idea," said the young templar, glancing over his shoulder at the bulk of the Circle Tower behind him.

"Don't worry so much, Cullen." Alaric gave an easy grin through his new beard, the cheerfully leonine expression that had charmed half the female apprentices in the Tower, even earning a wintry smile from Senior Enchanter Wynne. "I've got a pass from the First Enchanter, and all the signed approvals I need."

"That just means _you_ won't get in trouble if the Knight-Commander decides to take notice." Cullen frowned. "It doesn't do anything to protect _me_. Remember what happened the last time your colleagues got permission to go outdoors to take some exercise?"

"_Feh."_ Alaric held up one hand, a peremptory finger extended into the air. "I will remind you of one significant difference. That fool from the Anderfels has over a _dozen_ escape attempts on his record, with four of them at least briefly successful. I, on the other hand, have _none_. Come on, Cullen, I'm not interested in leaving the Circle. I have too much to learn here, too much to do."

That apparently satisfied the templar, who turned to look for a place to set down the satchel he carried over one shoulder. Thus he did not see when Alaric's smile froze, and evaporated like morning dew.

_That was only a half-truth. I do have too much to learn to think about trying to escape._

_For now._

"All right," said Cullen, producing a pair of wooden practice swords from the satchel. He tossed one to Alaric, who caught it, the hilt slapping into his hand with a satisfying sound. "There's no _rule_ against learning blade-work, even if Greagoir disapproves and most mages never take an interest. I suppose I can teach you the basics. Although I don't see what this has to do with your magical research."

Alaric hefted the wooden sword, settling the hilt comfortably in his hand, and then stood waiting, the blade pointing to the ground by his side. "It's something I came across while translating elven documents," he said. "The ancient elves apparently had a method for using magic to support their skills in personal combat. They didn't just become better mages. They became mages who could wear heavy armor and fight with military weapons, even while they continued to use spell-craft. Something the Circle doesn't think is even possible."

"Interesting," mused the templar. "It sounds a little like the skills taught by the Chantry's order of Knight-Enchanters. You would have to begin with some trained skill with the weapons, of course."

"Right. Which means learning something other than simple staff-work."

"I understand." Cullen squared off against Alaric, raising his wooden blade. "All right, what we have here are wooden long-swords. They're called that, not because the blade is all that long, but because the _hilt_ is long enough for two hands."

Alaric frowned. "Do I _have_ to use both hands to manage the blade?"

"No, not unless you want to cut or thrust with extra power, or use a technique that involves putting one hand on the blade. You said you wanted to learn a technique that kept one hand free, so that leaves out any kind of sword-and-shield style."

"That's right. Spell-casting is hard to do with just the off-hand, but at least it's possible. With both hands full of a weapon there would be no chance."

Cullen nodded. "Let's start with the guard positions. Use a two-handed grip for now. Once you've developed more arm strength and more familiarity with the weapon, you can use a one-handed grip when you need to, but for now it's more important that you learn the basic forms."

Slowly, the young templar showed his student four basic guard positions: upright in front, beside the head, beside the hip, and with the sword-point toward the ground. Each position had a name and a number. Once Alaric became familiar with them, Cullen began calling out the numbers while the mage switched from one guard to the next.

"One. Two. Three. Four. Good. Again . . ."

Patiently, Cullen corrected the minutiae of stance and grip. Later, he began to perform slow, telegraphed attacks with his own practice blade, still calling out the numbers, tapping Alaric's blade firmly with each stroke. Before long, Alaric's face bore a sheen of sweat, as well as a determined expression.

"This is hard work," he observed, once Cullen called for a break.

"That it is." The templar grinned. "You're in good shape for a mage, but you need to develop more endurance and upper-body strength. If you're serious about this, you will need to spend time training almost every day."

"I will." Alaric frowned. "I don't think this is going to work, if you and I have to keep sneaking out of the Tower all the time."

"No." Cullen sighed. "I suppose I'll have to talk to the Knight-Commander about this. In theory, he's in favor of our charges getting as much exercise as they want, but he's not going to be happy about a mage learning sword-play."

Alaric felt a surge of resentment, which he carefully concealed from his friend. "Would it help if I had a word with the First Enchanter? Greagoir seems more, um, _flexible_ with Irving than he is with anyone our age."

"True enough. Not to mention that Irving will be able to argue more effectively than you or I. The man has a positive gift for rhetoric."

Alaric snorted. "I've noticed. Let's work on this some more."

"You're not tired?"

"I have to learn not to be." Alaric took up the high-guard stance once more. "Come on."

After a time, their drills became more free-form, as Cullen taught the mage more defensive techniques and stopped telegraphing his attacks.

"I've often wondered, Alaric, just where you're from." _Crack. Crack._ "You don't sound Ferelden. I'd guess you have a Free Marches accent."

"That's right." Alaric stepped back for a moment to mop sweat out of his eyes, and then took up a guard position once more. "Kirkwall."

"How did you end up _here?"_

"Well, I was in the Kirkwall Circle at first, of course. Then both of my sisters showed signs of the power, and they had to come in too." Alaric moved quickly, frowning as he blocked a pair of attacks. "Three Amells in one Circle seemed like too many, so the Chantry decided to divide us."

Cullen blinked in surprise, aborting his next attack. "Wait a moment. _Amell_. You're related to Solona?"

The corners of Alaric's lips turned up slightly. "Yes. She's my youngest sister."

Cullen said nothing, only returned to the attack. _Crack. Crack._

"Hah!" Alaric said. "I thought so. You fancy her, don't you?"

"No!" Cullen drew back, a pale expression of shock crossing his face. "No, that's not it! I've just . . . _noticed_ her, that's all."

Alaric gave a sardonic smile, lowering the point of his practice sword to the ground and leaning on it for a moment. "Well, I'm sure this Kirkwall accent sounds more charming coming from her. Just have a care, Cullen. She _is_ my sister, and she's only fifteen."

"I assure you, Alaric, I intend nothing dishonorable."

"I know, Cullen. In truth, I would far rather _you_ kept an eye on Solona than some of your colleagues. She's a talented girl, but something of an innocent."

The templar nodded in eager agreement. "I will keep her from harm."

Alaric watched Cullen for a moment, and then nodded slowly, keeping his thoughts to himself.

_That's a promise you won't be able to keep. You're a templar. We're mages. In the end, it's your task to put us down like rabid beasts if we step out of line._

_At least you mean well. For all the good that will do you, when your duty comes calling._

For the moment, Cullen looked somewhat relieved. "We've been at this for some time. Perhaps we should finish for the day."

"I'll admit that I'm a bit tired. I suspect I'll be stiff and sore in the morning."

"Oh yes, you _will_ be, but that's a good thing. Your body will not improve without a certain amount of pain and effort."

"I understand. I'll speak with Irving once we get back. Do you think you'll have time to work with me often?"

Cullen nodded eagerly. "Perhaps not _every_ day, but we should be able to have a training session at least three or four times each week. This will be interesting. You know, most of my colleagues think you mages to be soft."

Alaric clapped the templar on the shoulder. "I'll be happy to prove them wrong."

While Cullen put the practice blades away, Alaric looked around him: blue sky, birds flying overhead, green grass and grey stone. The sunlight shimmered off Lake Calenhad, all around the Tower on its island.

For an instant, the mage felt a powerful surge of temptation, almost too much to ignore. The young templar's back was turned, his guard down. A sudden blow to the back of Cullen's head, a dash for the lake-shore, and Alaric could be free.

_Free._

_Free for just as long as it takes the templars to send an expedition out after me. I don't know this country. I don't know the people or the terrain. I couldn't hide for long or flee very far, and then they would hale me back, and life would become far worse for me than it is now._

_Besides, I couldn't do that to Cullen._

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head ruefully.

_Then there's the fact that I can't swim worth a damn._

When Cullen glanced back at him, wondering what had made him laugh, Alaric only smiled. He turned back, walking beside the templar in companionable silence, as he returned to his long captivity.


	5. Five (Morrigan)

_**Summer, Dragon 9:29, Korcari Wilds**_

Flemeth leaned back in her wicker chair against the wall of her hut, smiling, as her daughter emerged from the edge of the forest.

"I know that look," she said. "Deep thought, mixed with a certain amount of smug satisfaction. Our Morrigan has learned something new, but the lesson has caused no _serious_ harm to her self-regard."

The young witch gave her mother a sharp glance as she stepped up into the hut's crude porch. She leaned her staff against the clapboard wall, and sank gracefully down into the other wicker chair.

"I suppose there is truth in what you say," she admitted. "I have learned that men are fools, but the lesson certainly did nothing to persuade me that I share their folly."

"Ah! Share with your mother, Morrigan. In my dotage, I so rarely enjoy the company of men."

The younger woman snorted in derision. "Given what has happened to at least three men, to my _certain_ knowledge, after they dared visit the Witch of the Wilds in her den? I wonder that the Chasind do not set out signs all around our home, warning every creature of the male persuasion to flee at once."

"They died happy, girl, be certain of that. 'Tis a gift possessed by all the women of our family. Now, no more delays! Tell me what you saw, out beyond the margin of the Wilds."

"I ventured into a Ferelden village, one of those owing fealty to Arl Leonas of South Reach. To them I seemed a simple wilder girl, come to trade a few pelts. They accepted me easily enough."

Flemeth smiled. "Good. I have my reasons for raising you here, out in the Wilds, but it pleases me that you are capable of moving among settled folk at need. Go on."

"I did not know a band of Chasind had already come to the village on a similar errand. One of them saw me and realized who I must be. He pointed and gasped and began to jabber in his own dialect. I think the shock must have driven every word of the common tongue out of his head."

"Hmm. Dangerous, girl. The Chasind know very little of us, but they know enough to pose a threat. What did you do?"

"There was a soldier at hand, a fair-haired slab of muscle. One of the arl's men, no doubt, a captain or sergeant-at-arms." Morrigan smiled, a sudden predatory look. "I reasoned that men are always ready to believe two things of a woman, especially if she is young and desirable. One, that she is weak, and two, that she finds him attractive. I played the distraught girl and fluttered my eyelashes at him. He required little encouragement to leap to the conclusion that the Chasind was trying to place a curse on me. He had the man arrested."

"Oh, ho-ho-ho!" Flemeth threw her head back and cackled with laughter. "Nicely done, girl, nicely done indeed. You had no difficulty after that?"

"Only in fending off the soldier's wandering hands. I distracted him and made my escape."

"Good!" The old crone cocked her head, watching her daughter with a measuring stare. "Yes, 'tis true, men are generally fools, and never the more than when they have the scent of a woman to lure them into folly. Although it must be said that most _women_ are fools as well."

"Not I," Morrigan retorted, rather sharply.

"My girl, one of the most important lessons you must learn is to recognize when _you_ are being a fool. For all of us are fools at one time or another."

The young woman looked rebellious.

Flemeth sighed and shook her head slightly, turning away to look out into the lowering twilight. "No matter. No doubt you find that men are not of much interest."

"_I_ certainly have never found a use for one," said Morrigan.

"Well. They _can_ be rather pleasant, so long as one takes care not to take them over-seriously, or permit them to think themselves in command." The old woman frowned, as if in deep thought, and her voice fell until Morrigan could barely hear it. "There is one thing . . . but no, I doubt you are ready to hear of this."

The younger witch pulled her lips back from her teeth in a snarl. "Blood and damnation, Mother! Do not think to tease me. If you have something you wish me to learn, then speak of it and be done!"

Flemeth glanced at her daughter, and for once Morrigan could see not even a hint of manipulation in the old woman's face. The unexpected appearance of _honesty_ caused her flare of anger to evaporate as quickly as it came.

"This is a deep matter, girl. The world is about to enter into a time of profound change. No one will be able to avoid playing a part in the larger scheme of things. Not even you or I."

"You have hinted at this before, Mother," Morrigan said seriously.

"So I have. Perhaps it is time for me to do more than hint." Flemeth stirred in her chair, watching the stars as they slowly came out above. "I have told you of the ancient Tevinter belief in the Old Gods."

Morrigan nodded.

"Theirs is a tragic tale," said the old woman. "Beings of light and wonder, imprisoned far from their home after a betrayal whose very name has been forgotten. For thousands of years they lay in the depths and dreamed. Men worshipped them, and learned much even from the shadows of their thoughts. Then the disaster, and the Old Gods and their mortal servants became twisted things. Four times the Blight has come, and each time it has nearly ended all life in this world."

"I do not see the relevance of this," Morrigan complained.

"Patience, girl. All in due time. Consider that each new Blight begins when one of the Old Gods is corrupted by the darkspawn taint. It awakens, it rises, and it leads the darkspawn against the living world. The Blight ends only when the Old God dies."

"At the hand of a Gray Warden."

"Yes. I am pleased that you remember your history lessons, girl. Can you tell me which of the Old Gods have thus far risen and been slain?"

Morrigan nodded, and began to count on her fingers. "Dumat, the god of Silence. Zazikel, the god of Chaos. Toth, the god of Fire. Andoral, the god of Slaves."

"Leave it to the Tevinter, to worship one of those magnificent beings and make of it a god of _slavery_," Flemeth remarked, stinging scorn in her voice. "Well, there you have it. Four out of seven of those creatures, already lost to the world. Sooner or later the rest will rise, one at a time. Those of us who wish to live must see them slain, for our own sake. Yet what if we could _preserve_ one of the Old Gods? Help it to escape from the darkspawn taint, and walk freely in the world once more?"

Morrigan stared at her mother, her eyes wide and her lips gone soft with wonder. "Is such a thing possible?"

"It would be difficult, a matter of deep magic and exquisite timing, but possible. An opportunity is coming. Soon, very soon now."

"You are saying that a new Blight is about to begin. The Fifth Blight."

"Yes, girl." Flemeth nodded slowly. "That is exactly what I am saying."

"When?"

"That, I cannot know for certain." Her voice fell, until Morrigan had to lean close to hear. "Thirty years ago, I saw the first sign, when I met the fugitive King of Ferelden and helped him in his quest to retake his kingdom. I knew then that the Blight would come, sometime soon after the end of his reign. It was four years ago that Maric was lost. It cannot now be long in coming."

"What will you do, then?"

"I?" Flemeth stirred, a crooked smile spreading across her face once more. _"I_ will do nothing, girl, except act as best I may to survive the storm. If this opportunity is to be taken, it must be by a younger woman, one who may still conceive and bear a child."

For a moment, Morrigan still seemed lost in wonder at the mysteries her mother had revealed. Then the implications struck home, and she recoiled in something like horror. "You wish that _I_ should act to preserve the next Old God to rise. That I should give it . . . _incarnation."_

"It is not something I would demand of you, girl, but it _is_ a possibility," Flemeth smirked. "For you to take advantage, you are going to need a man. Specifically, a Grey Warden. It _is_ one of the things for which they are indeed of use. So we come full circle."

Morrigan stared. "Mother . . . is this _why_ I was born?"

"You were born, girl, because I enjoyed a night's pleasure with a Chasind man who had a talent for magic."

"That is not an answer!"

"It is all the answer I have for you." The old woman sighed. "Is it too much to believe that I was lonely? That I simply wished to see a child of my own rise to her power before I became too decrepit to take any pleasure in it?"

Morrigan snorted. "From you, Mother, that is _indeed_ too much to believe."

"Ah well. Perhaps you are right." Flemeth made a smile, gentle and rather sad. "Yes, Morrigan, I had reasons for giving you birth when I did, just as I had reasons for raising you as I have. One day, you will understand those reasons. As for this possibility? No. I would rejoice to see one of the Old Gods preserved, nothing more. So, _if you wish it,_ I will teach you what you must know."

The young witch stared at her mother, watching for signs of deception and seeing none.

_Not that I would be able to catch Mother in a lie in any case. I can either believe her or not, as I choose, for she will certainly give me no clue._

_Yet to bring one of the Old Gods back into the world, free of its evil fate? To be mother to such a being, to have it in my care as it grows into its power?_

"Very well, Mother," she said at last. "Tell me more."


End file.
